"Sundark on darker streets. It's violent times for weary feet.
Carjackers and bullet showers, a yellow sign: too many fools in power .
But see, I will be gone by morning; my dear friend, I lost a fight .
Forget me, I wash my hands in your grey slowing night.
Coming down from darkened heights I taste the Thames with my cycle lights.
By Saint Paul's, by Big Ben, by God's name I repent.
But see, I will be gone by morning; my dear London, goodnight.
Forget me, I wash myself in your grey river light."
·London . Patrick Wolf·
Carjackers and bullet showers, a yellow sign: too many fools in power .
But see, I will be gone by morning; my dear friend, I lost a fight .
Forget me, I wash my hands in your grey slowing night.
Coming down from darkened heights I taste the Thames with my cycle lights.
By Saint Paul's, by Big Ben, by God's name I repent.
But see, I will be gone by morning; my dear London, goodnight.
Forget me, I wash myself in your grey river light."
This is supposed to be weird and sad and painful. This is supposed to be over quickly, like all my previous infatuations. Thinking of you make me puke, twist my guts, drive me crazy; what have you done to deserve being there, why not me, why am I here, fucking hot, surrounded by ugly Spanish people with loud voices and funny clothes. See, I'm not that brave, I knew it, I shouldn't have gone to London. But most of all I shouldn't have left.
